Outside Chance (3 page)

‘So when did you ring Truman?'

‘When we got back to the main road. Ricey told him . . .' Hearing the sound of the outside door opening, Mikey broke off and looked anxiously at Ben.

Before Ben could say anything voices were heard, one of which announced, ‘They're in here,' and then the kitchen door swung inwards to reveal a thin-faced, mousey-haired youngster, full of self-importance. ‘Mikey and his journalist brother. I told you.'

‘Yes, thank you, Davy. You can go now. We'll call you if we need you.' The second speaker was a diminutive man in his late fifties, with thinning grey hair and pronounced crow's feet at the corners of his shrewd grey eyes.

Ian Rice – Ricey – was Castle Ridge's travelling head lad, responsible for the well-being of the horses when they left the yard to go racing. Ben had met him a couple of times before, on visits to see Mikey, and liked him a lot. He was quiet – both with animals and people – efficient, and very patient with Mikey.

‘Hello, Ian.' Ben could see two much bulkier figures looming behind him, and it only took a glance to recognise them as policemen, even
though they wore plain clothes. His work had brought him into contact with the police on numerous occasions and he had developed an unerring eye for members of the constabulary, in whatever guise they chose to appear.

‘Ben; the Guvnor – that is, Mr Truman – would like to see you over at the house, if you've got a minute,' Rice told him.

‘Is it in the nature of a summons?'

‘It is, rather,' he said apologetically. ‘As I'm sure Mikey's told you, we've got a bit of a crisis on our hands.'

‘Yeah, Mikey's told me, but don't be too hard on him,' Ben said, getting to his feet. ‘He didn't want to tell me. I'm afraid I prised it out of him.'

‘I'm not in trouble, am I?' Mikey glanced from Ben to Rice, and back.

‘No, no, you're not in trouble, Mikey.' One of the police officers stepped into the room. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions, that's all.'

‘I'll stay with him,' Rice told Ben quietly, as he moved towards the door.

In the narrow hall, the second policeman blocked his way. ‘You wouldn't be thinking of using your mobile phone between here and the house, would you?' he enquired.

Ben looked down at the hand that was preventing his forward movement and after a moment it was removed.

‘I hadn't been,' he said.

‘All the same, perhaps I'll just come with you.'

Ben sighed. ‘I've got a better idea.' He reached into his inside pocket and withdrew the tiny, metal-cased phone. ‘You look after this for me,
and I'll find my own way over. I think I can manage.'

Following the cinder path that led from the cottage to the main house, Ben thought over what he'd learned, and reflected wryly that it was typical that when the scoop of a lifetime fell into his lap, he should be honour-bound to keep it to himself.

Castle Ridge House – home of racehorse owner, trainer and self-made millionaire Eddie Truman – was an imposing edifice, built less than five years previously in red brick, with concrete pillars flanking its glossy, white double doors. It sat on a natural plateau, on the site of the far smaller manor house it had replaced, and had everything a rags-to-riches businessman could have wished for; including an indoor swimming pool, garaging for eight cars, an adjoining tennis court, and a conservatory that could have housed a modest bungalow.

Ben had seen it several times in the daylight and, privately, he thought it vulgar.

Crossing the pea-shingle drive, he counted six cars drawn up in front of the mock-Georgian façade. None of them were obviously police vehicles but, under the blaze of the halogen lights, Ben could see only one that bore the personalised number-plates with which all Eddie Truman's cars were fitted.

A door at the side of the house stood ajar, a thin sliver of light escaping to lay a line down the path; at his approach it opened fully and a feminine figure stood silhouetted in the aperture.

‘Ben?'

‘That's right.'

‘Good. Come on in. Mr Truman's waiting for you in the study.'

Ben stepped into the hall where the speaker was revealed as a pretty female in her late twenties, with big, dark eyes and glossy, shoulder-length, brown hair. Bess Wainwright, one of the two PAs at Castle Ridge, and the one who shared Mikey's cottage. Ben followed her through the quarry-tiled back hall, along a corridor and across an inner hall to a white panelled door with brass fittings. There, after knocking briefly, she leaned in to announce Ben's presence before ushering him through.

There were three men in the room that Ben entered: two who were unknown to him but almost certainly policemen, and one seated at the desk, whom he recognised from newspaper photographs and TV racing coverage as Eddie Truman.

Even when he was seated you could tell he was a big man, and Ben knew, from the way he dwarfed interviewers, that he must be well over six foot tall. Square shoulders and a square-jawed freckled face added to the impression of bulk, and the fingers that tapped impatiently on the desk were short and spatulate. Hair that had once been bright ginger was fading now that he was in his fifties, greying at the temples and decidedly thin on top, but it was still easy to see why the trainer had picked up the nickname of ‘Red' Truman.

‘Ah, come in, Mr Copperfield. Take a seat.'
Truman's voice held a rich Yorkshire burr, apparently the one part of his background that he had not tried to hide. ‘Gentlemen, this is Ben Copperfield – Michael's brother; Ben, this is DI Ford and DS Hancock. Doubtless you already know why they're here.'

Ben inclined his head, sat in a buttoned leather wing-chair, and waited, taking in the overstated opulence of his surroundings with an interested glance. Chairs, desk, footstool and window seat were all finished in red leather; all fittings were of burnished bronze, including the fireplace surround; and several art deco maidens held glass lampshades aloft at strategic points in the room. One wall supported shelves of expensive, leather-bound books from floor to ceiling, but none of the spines bore any signs of use. Tassels were very much in favour on cushions, gold velvet curtains and a bell pull, and there was enough mahogany in evidence to have laid waste to a small rainforest. Ben had no doubt that it was real. For someone who had spent a sizeable number of his student days protesting against various environmental crimes, it was a sad sight.

‘I'm not going to mince my words, Ben – may I call you that?' Truman began. ‘I was deeply disturbed to find that you were here and talking to Mikey. I suppose he contacted you and asked you to come – it would be too much to suppose your appearance was a coincidence.'

‘Yes, he called me. He was, understandably, very upset, but he didn't tell me why. It was my decision to come and see him. I was worried.'

DS Hancock cleared his throat. ‘Mr
Copperfield, we understand you're a journalist. Is that correct?'

‘Yes, that's right.'

‘What paper do you work for?'

‘I'm freelance.'

‘May I ask you what you're working on at the moment?'

‘You can
ask
 . . .' Hancock's attitude was putting Ben's back up.

‘Obviously your brother has already told you what's going on.'

‘Obviously.'

‘And I suppose you're thinking this is the scoop of the century . . .'

Hancock had two millimetres of dark hair and the eyes of a cynic. Plain clothes for him were black jeans, a black turtleneck and a tailored black leather jacket. Ben felt that, had he not been a police officer, he would have worn an earring.

‘I could more or less name my price,' he agreed.

Hancock glared at him, plainly squaring up for a confrontation, but his superior stepped into the breach.

‘But you won't, will you, Mr Copperfield? You're intelligent enough to understand that this is a delicate situation in which inappropriate publicity could be disastrous, and you have conscience enough to put moral duty before monetary gain.'

‘Do I indeed?' Ben regarded the DI through narrowed eyes. ‘That's pretty analytical. Are you always that quick to form an opinion, or have we met before?'

‘Neither. I just remembered a certain journalist called Ben Copperfield who was instrumental in exposing the Goodwood betting scandal a couple of years ago.' He smiled. ‘That was good work.'

Somewhere in his forties, Ford could not have been many years older than his colleague, but nature had taken the controlling hand in his hair loss, leaving him with a thick brown fringe circling a completely bald pate. Slightly overweight, he presented an avuncular air, but his rank alone would suggest that there was a sharp mind behind the genial appearance.

Ben acknowledged the praise with a slight inclination of his head. The Goodwood affair had started out as a simple reporting assignment, but he had caught the whiff of corruption and, anticipating a diversion from what was becoming a fairly monotonous string of jobs, he'd jumped into the investigation with what, in hindsight, could be described as rather foolhardy zeal.

‘A journo is a journo, as far as I'm concerned,' Hancock persisted.

‘Oh, I think Ben will toe the line,' Truman interjected confidently. ‘After all, he wouldn't want to do anything that might jeopardise Mikey's career.'

Ben frowned at the trainer. ‘I'm sure you didn't
intend
that to sound like a threat,' he remarked softly.

‘Of course he didn't,' Ford cut in. ‘Look, let me propose a deal. For better or worse, Ben already has part of the picture, so I suggest we fill him in on what we know so far. Ben will undertake not to breathe a word of it to any
outside party, in return for which we grant him exclusive rights to the story, as and when it's safe to print it. What do you say?' He looked hopefully from Ben to Truman.

Ben nodded, keeping his eagerness hidden. ‘That seems fair.'

‘Truman?'

‘Well, if you say he's to be trusted, I'll go along with that. But if the whole story is splashed over the morning papers tomorrow, I'll hold you personally accountable,' Truman promised, the expression on his heavy featured face giving weight to the warning.

Ford was not noticeably intimidated. ‘Good. Now, gentlemen, given that we've established that we're all on the same side, can we shelve the attitude and move on? Ben, you know that this afternoon, at approximately five-fifteen, the horsebox bringing four of Mr Truman's horses back from Sandown racecourse was hijacked, near Guildford, by three men, driven to an out-of-the-way location, and one horse, er . . .' He consulted his pocketbook. ‘Cajun King, was then removed while the others were set free.'

Ben nodded.

‘It would seem to have been a well-planned and executed operation,' Ford continued. ‘Mr Rice says they came through Guildford and over the Hog's Back to avoid the M25, but the hijackers obviously knew which route the horsebox would be taking and had posted a lookout to call ahead to the men who were waiting to pull the vehicle over.'

‘Mikey says they posed as immigration officials,' Ben commented.

‘Yes, after a manner of speaking. According to the driver they had a white van with an orange flashing light on top, a quantity of cones, fluorescent green jackets, a clipboard and some kind of laminated ID card. All fairly easily sourced. Nothing to challenge the ingenuity of anyone with reasonable intelligence. Rice is kicking himself for being so easily taken in, but the fact is that almost anyone would have been. People see what they expect to see, to a great extent. If you set the scene well enough, people will fill in the gaps for you, it's been proven time and time again. He's not to blame.'

‘Mikey says the men had some kind of accent but he couldn't say which.'

‘That's interesting. Rice only heard one of them speak but he remembers the man as being quite well spoken. He describes him as of average height with a moustache and glasses, and a rather sallow complexion.'

‘So, what did he say?' Ben asked.

‘Not a great deal.' Ford consulted his notes again. ‘Asked him to turn the engine off; said he was an immigration officer and wanted to know what they were carrying, and all their names. Then, before Rice had even finished talking, the hijackers jumped them.'

‘Mikey said they had guns.'

‘Yes, they did,' Ford said grimly. ‘Of course, we can't be sure that they'd have used them, but we have to assume they would. It makes the whole business extremely serious.'

‘Lucky that Mikey wasn't found,' Ben commented. ‘Or rather, that they didn't look for
anyone else. He wouldn't have been hard to find if they'd bothered to look. Presumably Rice didn't tell them he was there.'

‘No. He said, in the heat of the moment, he completely forgot the lad was there, which was lucky, because then Mikey was able to set them free when the hijackers had gone.'

‘So, are you treating it as kidnap?'

‘Well, there's been no ransom demand, as yet, but it seems most likely. There's not a lot you can do with a stolen racehorse, and especially not one who's as well known as Cajun King. You certainly can't race it.'

‘And I suppose he's gelded – being a steeplechaser?'

‘Yes, and microchipped,' Truman interposed. ‘Easily identifiable if we do find him. I just wish – if they do want money – that they'd get on with it.'

‘They'll leave you to stew for a bit,' Hancock told him. ‘Softens you up.makes you more ready to part with your money.'

‘Is the horse actually yours?' Ben asked.

The trainer nodded.

‘So . . . will you pay, if that's what this is all about?'

‘Oh, yes. DI Ford says we more or less have to, and I agree. I want that horse back where he belongs as soon as possible. Cheltenham's only three weeks away, and every hour he spends away from here screws his chances even more.'